


There Are No Eyes Here

by Lise



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-02
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-04 17:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's always the simple hunts that go pear-shaped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Are No Eyes Here

_“Shit,” Dean says, “Shit,” and he should be used to seeing this much blood, has definitely seen more, but it’s always worse when it’s Sam and he’s making these funny little gasping noises like he can’t quite get a breath. His eyes follow Dean, wide and half-panicked like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing._

_“Come on, Sam,” Dean says, tightly, desperately. “Hold on. Just hold on. It’s okay…” It’s not, and they both know it, and this never should have happened, this never should have fucking happened. (Still did, though, and isn’t that the fucking story of their lives.)_

_“Dean,” Sam says, and blinks sluggishly. His whole body shudders. They need to get out of here, get moving, now. “Did you…did you get it?”_

_“Yeah,” Dean says, “Yeah, I did,” just a couple seconds too late. A couple seconds, but that’s all it takes._

* * *

There are a number of things about Sam that bug Dean, but one of them would definitely have to be his apparently pathological need to complicate a hunt.

Come into town, shoot a black dog, burn the body, wham, bam, done. Anybody else. Really, anybody else. Except Sam. Sam ‘I-just-don’t-think-it’s-that-simple’ Winchester.

“I just don’t think it’s that simple,” Sam says, and Dean grimaces.

“Why not? Seems pretty simple to me.”

“I just feel like there’s something we’re missing.” Sam is making that pinched face he gets when he’s frustrated that he can’t work something out, or else frustrated that Dean’s done with this hunt and ready to move on and Sam’s…not. For whatever reason.

Overcomplicating things, Dean’s just saying.

“Like what?” Dean says, crossing his arms, trying to look like he might actually be considering the idea that this is more complicated than it is. Sam bitchfaces at him, so he probably doesn’t do as well as he could.

“I don’t know,” Sam says, annoyed now. “I just have a feeling. Since when do we get easy hunts that are what they look like anyway?”

“It does happen,” Dean protests.

“How often?”

“Look,” Dean says, getting sick of this discussion because there isn’t really _anything_ Sam has to indicate that they did something wrong - if there was he’d look into it, all right? But there’s nothing, just a feeling. “This was a black dog, we killed it, end of story.”

“I just think…”

In retrospect, it probably would have been better not to snap, “Sam, maybe you can come back to me with a _feeling_ when you’re not hallucinating 24/7 and I’ll buy it, but right now I’m going to need something a little more solid,” and yeah, a second later he feels bad about it when Sam’s face closes off and he takes a step back, but before he can take it back Sam just says, “Yeah, sure, fine,” and there’s really no way to apologize to that face.

He’ll bring Sammy a girly coffee tomorrow and that’ll do. “I’m going out,” he says, for tonight, and by ‘out’ means ‘going to get drunk off my ass’ because, really. “Want to come with?”

Sam gets his pinched look on again. “Dean,” he says, and then sighs. “Maybe you should drink less.”

It’s pretty mild as admonitions go, but it still bugs Dean, though he manages not to say _yeah, Sam, let’s talk about unhealthy addictions,_ how about it. One nasty pot shot a night is probably enough. The fact that he said it at all is a good sign that he needs to get drunk because if he doesn’t his mood is just going to get worse and not better. Dean plasters on his best shit-eating grin and says, “Yeah, sure. So are you coming?”

“No,” Sam says, after a second, not quite shortly. “I think I’ll stay back here. Look for another hunt.”

“Barrels of fun, you are,” Dean says, with extra grin, but he’s a little privately relieved because after all it’s not like Sam’s the best drinking companion. And he’d just bitchface the entire time. So it’s probably for the best. In reality Sam’s probably going to go back to the room and sulk, but Dean’ll make it up to him later.

* * *

_“We need to get to the car,” Dean says, mostly to himself because Sam is just barely hanging onto consciousness with Dean yelling at him every five minutes. “Okay, Sam? Help me out, here. We need to get to the car and get you to a hospital, this is more than I can handle-”_

_Sam blinks up at Dean and makes a valiant effort to stand. His knees buckle before he even gets them straight, and Dean catches him, keeps dragging them both along, blood all over his arms and his shirt and his pants, spilling out of Sam like it’ll never fucking stop._

_Sam starts shivering. “Dean,” he says, “Stop, stop, I can’t-” and Dean tries to close his ears and just move faster. His footsteps are stumbling, though, his body isn’t quite working right, and God, why isn’t he sober, why isn’t he_

_Sam’s panting, uneven and rapid. “Hang on, Sam,” Dean says, “We’ve just got to get to the car, just get to the car and we’ll be fine,” but he’s going to have to drive and fuck that’s probably the worst idea he’s had tonight in a night of terrible ideas._

_“It’s okay,” Sam says breathlessly, and he’s the one slurring now, “Dean, it’s okay, if I die it’ll just start over again-” and Dean is pretty sure his blood just fucking freezes. “Always starts over again,” Sam says, and whimpers through his teeth, and how many times, Dean doesn’t want to wonder, how many times did he…_

_“Stay with me, Sammy,” he says, and the edge of the trees is coming up, they have to get there in time, God, they have to get there in time. His hands are sliding in Sam’s blood. “Stay with me, okay?”_

_Sam giggles. It’s an awful (wet, is that a gurgle in the back of his throat, fuck, Sam’s lungs) sound. “Can’t get away from you,” he says, “Can’t ever get away from you, you know that, you always told me so,” and Dean really wishes he had the luxury of throwing up right now, because he’d kind of really like to._

* * *

The bartender is hot, the drinks are good, and everyone leaves Dean alone. It’s looking to be an okay night (at least on that front, because everything else still pretty much sucks) when Sam calls about midnight and says tersely, “Someone else is dead.”

“What?” Dean says, and maybe his words slur a little.

“Someone else is dead,” Sam repeats. “Definitely a black dog. There was more than one.”

Dean blinks. “ _What?_ ” Dean hears Sam breathe out sharply through his nose.

“How drunk are you? Maybe I’ll just take care of this on my own.” Dean sits up straight at that, almost indignant. Particularly at the slight tone of disgust in Sam’s voice.

“Fuck you, Sam,” Dean says. “Don’t get all ‘I told you so’ on me. Black dogs never travel in pairs.”

“Apparently now they do.” Sam sighs. “Dean, I’m serious. Maybe it’d just be a better idea…this doesn’t have to be hard. I can deal with one black dog.”

“I’m not going to let you go out there on your own.”

“If you’re smashed I might be _safer_ out there on my own,” Sam says, and there’s only a little bit of snark in it, and he does add, “Or maybe we can go tomorrow,” but it’s enough to raise Dean’s hackles and make him answer, “Cause you’re the picture of level-headedness, yeah,” to which Sam says nothing, at least not for a second.

“Okay,” Dean adds, before Sam can blow up. “I’m coming back, all right? Stay where you are, don’t leave without me. It’s just another fucking black dog. No big deal. We can take care of it together.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, after a silence that’s a little too long. “Yeah, okay, but get here fast, all right?”

Dean walks back to the motel and the cold air seems to clear his head a little, and it’s not like he’s some kind of lightweight after all, he’s fine. Sam is worried over nothing. Like usual. His little brother is waiting outside the room, duffel next to his feet and expression decidedly cool. “Are you sure you’re good for this?” He asks, right off, and Dean just snorts at him.

“What happened?” he asks, and Sam’s head jerks a little.

“They found a second body around ten,” he says. “I went over to confirm it, and yeah, it’s another one of ours. Definitely after we put down the first one. My guess is mated pair.”

“No one’s ever heard of a mated pair of black dogs.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Sam says, sounding more than a little annoyed, but at least he hasn’t come right out and said ‘I told you so’ yet, Dean appreciates that. He does feel bad about the fact that someone else died, but they couldn’t know. All they had was Sam’s feeling. That isn’t enough to go on.

“Right,” Dean says, after a moment’s pause. “Let’s go, then?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, though his mouth does a funny little twist like he was thinking about saying something else (probably nothing Dean wants to hear). “Let’s go. I’m driving.”

Dean considers digging in his heels, but Sam has his stubborn face on, and he’s grumpy enough as it is. Not worth it. “Whatever makes you happy, princess,” he says, and fishes the keys out of his pocket, tosses them over. Sam doesn’t say another word as he slides into the driver’s seat and starts the car (not the Impala, God does Dean miss her) and doesn’t really look at Dean either.

Dean hopes this is over quickly, because he doesn’t want to put up with hunting with Bitchy Sam all night.

* * *

_If this were the Impala they’d be there already, that’s what Dean tells himself, keeping Sam’s head on his knee and his right hand on his pulse, too fast and a little thready and they are so fucked, Sam is so fucked, he’s pretty sure he’s not driving straight and if someone gets hurt –_

_The road’s been pretty empty so far but his vision doesn’t seem any clearer despite the time that’s passed, if anything it’s only gotten worse and the panic isn’t helping, and Sam needs help right the fuck now, real help not a motel room quick fix because this is bad and the whole car smells like copper, Dean’s nose is thick with it._

_Sam hasn’t moved for a while. Dean can feel his pulse, so he’s still alive, though. Still (no, not okay, far from okay) can be saved._

_Sam’s pulse jumps under his fingers as his heart struggles to keep beating, running slowly out of blood. Dean pushes the gas a little harder and hopes a little more that no one’s on the road. He shouldn’t be driving._

_He shouldn’t have been hunting._

* * *

Sam doesn’t talk much while they’re tracking, either. A few short, terse directions, but for the most part he’s being his silently irritable self, and to be fair, Dean’s not really pushing him. He’s come to the conclusion that he’s maybe a little bit drunk, but not so bad. Past tipsy but not smashed. Can’t hurt.

This should be easy, anyway. (There should be some kind of rule against saying that. Or thinking it.)

Of course, in the end it comes to them. Sam falls still, hears it first (course he does, freaky super hearing or something) and there it is, growling and snuffling and mostly black dogs are quiet but this one’s pissed off, apparently. Which makes sense, if the other one was its mate or whatever.

Sam glances over at him and actually grins, and the tension Dean hadn’t realized was in his stomach eases up, because even if Sam’s just being a bitch it sucks when he’s pissed, and Dean likes that expression, the one that says _we’ve got ‘em_ and _I trust you_ and so many other of the important things they never actually say.

At this point there’s no words, just hand gestures and silent communication and-

_Shit!_ Dean catches it coming like a big black shadow (only vaguely dog shaped) out of the corner of his eye, but Sam already has his gun up and fires. It bays once as it peels off back into the bushes, vanishing into the dark around them again. Sam sweeps his flashlight in a semi-circle.

“Where’d you get it?” Dean asks. Sam shakes his head.

“Just winged it.”

Later the thing that sucks is that Dean sees it coming. Sam is looking the other way but Dean sees the bushes moving, and sees the shadow coming straight for Sam (more like a bear than a dog, who named these things) and has his gun up saying “Sam, down!” as his finger tightens.

It’s only a second. It’s only a millimeter.

Sam drops like he’s supposed to. A thousand other nights, Dean’s made this shot or one so much like it as to make no distance. He has the damn thing in a beam of light and it’s not looking at him, not going to dodge.

His hands shake. His vision blurs.

He misses.

And Sam, Sam who trusted him to make the shot because he said he would and it was a fucking easy shot is right in the thing’s path and doesn’t have time to get out of the way or defend himself before it’s on him and ripping into him and Sam is screaming.

The second time he doesn’t miss. The third and fourth are probably overkill.

They don’t make up for the shot that missed, though.

* * *

_They get pulled over a mile from the hospital. When the siren starts up behind him, it’s a quick couple moments’ decision whether to try to make it to the hospital. In the Impala he’d probably go for it. In this car he doesn’t think he’d get there in time to make a difference. He would have called already, honestly, but his cell is out of battery, and isn’t that perfect, isn’t that just-_

_He can barely feel Sam’s pulse at all with his fingers pressed hard against his throat and he’s scared, really scared, because he doesn’t think there’s anyone to get them out of the fire this time; it’s just them. No Cas (still hurts to think that), no deals, nothing._

_And there’s a part of him thinking_ maybe this is it maybe this is the end _but God, no, not like this. Not for Sam. Not because of him._

_(Missed the shot how could he miss that shot need to burn the body fuck Dean how could you miss.)_

_“Sir, can I ask you,” the cop says when Dean gets the window down (fumbling a few times) and Dean interrupts him with, “My brother’s been mauled, call a fucking ambulance,” about the same time the cop notices that Dean’s covered in blood._

_“What,” he says, and Dean could punch him, could shoot him (would probably miss) and says it again, louder, “Call a fucking ambulance!” and this time he grabs for his radio and stammers out the call, eyes glued to Sam’s face, his skin like wax._

_“Hold on, Sammy,” Dean says, “Hold the fuck on,” because he can’t say anything stupid in front of the fuzz, anything like_ I’d trade you hearts if I thought it would help. _Cause that’d be stupid._

_Still kind of true though._

_It’s a little bit of a blur after the ambulance gets there and they’re dragging Sam out onto a stretcher and yelling numbers and taking Sam away with sirens wailing before he can follow after and when the cop says, “Do you want a ride to the hospital?” Dean actually just nods, because he needs to be there when Sam wakes up._

_When._

* * *

Dean throws up in the hospital bathroom after taking one look at himself in the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot and his clothes are drenched in red. He’s a walking biohazard. And none of it’s his.

It’s funny, Dean thinks, this is his mistake. This is supposed to hurt him. This is supposed to be a self-destructive habit. That’s what Sam’s so worried about, isn’t it?

And Sam’s the one paying for it.

Dean heaves a few more times, stomach muscles rippling as every muscle clenches. It tastes like alcohol, he’s pretty sure. He probably smelled like ass to that cop but at least he didn’t get arrested, at least getting your brother ripped up wins you a free pass on that front.

Dean squeezes his eyes closed and tries not to see Sam as he last saw him. He’ll be fine. They’ll put him back together again. (Never mind his heartbeat was so faint, never mind all the blood, never mind…)

Sam thought he was Lucifer. For a few moments, he was back in Hell. Like he’d never left.

Sam has to be okay.

Dean leaves the bathroom and immediately encounters a nurse who shoves some scrubs at him and insists he change. He goes back in and peels off his clothes in one of the stalls before putting on the plain blue scrubs. Looking at the heap of blood-dampened clothes on the floor, Dean considers burning them.

(They need to burn the corpse out in the woods. Within twenty-four hours or it won’t stay dead.)

Dean goes up to the front desk and asks about Sam, but the receptionist doesn’t know anything. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything,” he says, and Dean resists the urge to grind his teeth.

He sits down and fidgets. His stomach is still churning. He wants something to drink.

Dean digs his fingernails into the palm of his hand. Not now. Not now. Sam: maybe you should drink less. God. It’s supposed to numb the pain. Not this. This was never supposed to happen.

He paces back and forth across the waiting room, letting disapproving stares follow him and not even caring a little. Another night he’d make his way back and find a way to keep an eye on Sam, to get closer before they say it’s fine. Tonight he’s spent enough time watching Sam bleed. Tonight he just wants to know Sam’s going to be okay, that it’s not going to be the end of the line because of Dean.

Dean can’t quite believe it when he eventually goes to sleep in one of the chairs, dreams dark and red and gray. He tells himself it’s a good thing no one’s come out yet. Means Sam is still hanging on.

He wakes up to a relatively gentle “Dean?” And oh shit, did he give their real names? Oops. Hopefully only first. They’d be in bigger trouble otherwise. It hasn’t been so long since they were all over the news and people will only accept coincidence so far.

Dean’s head hurts like hell but there’s nothing left to throw up, so maybe that did some good earlier. He can be grateful or something. There’s a doctor standing a few feet away with one of those solemn doctor expressions on his face that Dean doesn’t like. “S’he okay?” he manages to get out, and the doctor purses his lips and says “Yes.”

Also things like ‘severe blood loss’ and ‘healing coma’ and ‘nearly lost him’ but the yes is all that matters, all that can matter, and Dean kind of wants to know if you can throw up for relief (or maybe that’s just the hangover. Probably).

“He’s not out of the woods yet,” the doctor says, because Dean looks too happy or something, and Dean just shakes his head.

“He’ll be okay,” he says, maybe just a little breathlessly. “You don’t know him like I do.” Sam is…Sam. If he’s gotten this far he’ll make it the rest of the way.

“There’s no way to know when he’ll be coming around,” the doctor says after a moment. “But you can see him for a few minutes once he’s moved into a room.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Thanks,” but he’s not really listening to that either. He’ll sit by Sam until he wakes up. For a week if he has to. The nurses and shit can just deal with it. He drops his head down once the doctor retreats and just breathes for a few minutes.

Sam’s still alive. In spite of everything, like always, he’s still alive.

Dean really wants him to stay that way. And Sam might be screwed up in the head, might be doing God knows what inside his noggin, but it hasn’t gotten Dean hurt.

Too bad Dean can’t say the same.

Maybe it’s time for some changes. (No, not maybe, not anymore. It _is._ And he’s going to have to deal with that, or find a way to. Sam won’t blame him for this, not for a missed shot, _happens to all of us, Dean, I’m fine._ Dean knows better than that, though.

Sure, he’s lost a lot of people recently. Always has been losing a lot of people, sometimes for what seems like forever. But this could have cost him Sam.

And Dean’s done losing Sam. Just _done._

* * *

So it turns out now maybe they’re lucky, because no one’s come up to Dean saying _there seems to be something strange about your insurance_ even after a day and a half of Sam passed out in a bed with all kinds of monitors and wires (and Dean has to remind himself that he’s seen worse, at least there’s no ventilator this time) and Dean paces back and forth and refuses to get kicked out.

Except once, to go and burn the damn dog. But he comes right back.

Sam takes his sweet time waking up, though Dean really can’t blame him, not looking at the clean white bandages, not having felt the warm gush of blood all over himself because those claws went deep and fuck, Dean still doesn’t like thinking about it.

(Still brings back memories of a kitchen in Indiana.)

When Sam comes around it’s as anticlimactic as always, big slow blink and stare until his eyes focus on Dean’s and he relaxes. He still looks drugged out but he doesn’t look like he’s in pain either, so that’s good.

“Deeeean,” he says, stretching the vowels out like he does when he’s out of it, and he smiles a little, kind of distractedly. Not that Dean’d ever admit it, but it’s pretty freaking adorable.

“Yep,” Dean says, “That’s me,” and doesn’t admit to himself that he was worried Sam would wake up lost, would wake up thinking he was in Hell, but apparently he’s sorted that out.

“You okay?” Sam asks next, and Dean forces himself to snort because Sam expects it.

“Says the one lying in the hospital bed. Yeah, I’m fine. Not even a scratch.”

“Mmmm,” Sam says. “Good.” His eyelids drift back down, and Dean doesn’t argue with him. Just watches his breathing slow and settle, and if Sam’s still pale and still looks like Hell warmed over-

He’ll get better. And Dean’s not going to screw up again. Not like this, anyway. He’ll look up some of that stuff online, see if he can work something out. They’re going to have to lay low for a while as Sam recuperates anyway, he’ll have time.

And they’ll be fine. They’ll both be fine.


End file.
